A Poet's Harvest Home Being One Hundred Short Poems: By William Bell Scott ... With an Aftermath of Twenty Short Poems |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. | II.
THE POET'S BOOK. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
A Poet's Harvest Home | ||
108
II. THE POET'S BOOK.
The harmonies the poet knows
Are like the petals of this rose,
Leaf over leaf so pure, so bright,
So perfumed in crimson light,
Another still, they still combine,
Like verse on verse and line on line.
Are like the petals of this rose,
Leaf over leaf so pure, so bright,
So perfumed in crimson light,
Another still, they still combine,
Like verse on verse and line on line.
Silent he hides within his book,
Like hermit wise in sainted nook,
A sheath'd sword, unseen bird in bower—
The nightingale in night's high tower,
A voice not wandering but held close
Within the petals of his Rose.
Like hermit wise in sainted nook,
A sheath'd sword, unseen bird in bower—
The nightingale in night's high tower,
A voice not wandering but held close
Within the petals of his Rose.
A Poet's Harvest Home | ||